John Kessel - Corrupting Dr. Nice

By John Kessel from Tom Doherty Associates

Novels

Corrupting Dr. Nice

Good News from Outer Space

The Pure Product

Editor

Intersections : The Sycamore Hill Anthology

(with Mark L. Van Name and Richard Butners)

portrayed in this novel are either fictitious or are used

fictitiously.

CORRUPTING DR. NICE

Copyright 1997 by John Kessel

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

I Dont Know What Kind of Blues Ive Go t, by Duke

Ellington 1942 (Renewed) EMI Robbins Catalog

Inc. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission. Warner

Bros. Publications U.S. Inc., Miami, FL 33014.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

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New York, NY 10010

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Tor is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty

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Book design by Scott Levine

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Kessel, John.

Corrupting Dr. Nice / John Kessel.1st ed.

p. cm.

A Tom Doherty Associates book.

ISBN 0-312-86584-8 (pb)

I. Title.

PS3561.E6675C6 1997

813.54dc20 96-33020

CIP

First hardcover edition: February 1997

First trade paperback edition: March 1998

Printed in the United States of America

0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Dedicated, with affection and gratitude, to

Frank Capra

George Cukor

Howard Hawks

Gregory La Cava

Ernst Lubitsch

Leo McCarey

George Stevens

Billy Wilder

and most especially, in admiration for his genius, to Preston Sturges

Its a Wonderful Life

As Sloane unlaced the bodice of Genevieves peasants dress all she could hear was his breathing, fast and light. It showed how thinly his gentleness lay over his lust, and it was all she could do to keep from running from the room.

Youll have to excuse me, Sloane said. Im not used to these antiquated fastenings.

Genevieve pushed his hands aside and unlaced herself, slowly, turning it into a performance. Sloane tore at his own clothing, hopping up and down on one foot as he tugged at his breeches. Through the tiny latticed window to the courtyard came the smell of rotting vegetables and the voices of the concierge and his wife arguing in eighteenth-century French. Before Genevieve could shrug out of the sleeves of her dress Sloane had launched himself at her and they fell together onto the bed. He reeked of cologne and antibacterial soap. Gen forced a giggle and began to wonder how long she was going to have to keep this up.

At last the door burst open and in rushed August, wearing a dark blue frock coat over knee breeches, black buckled shoes and a cocked hat with tricolor cockade. He flashed the sigil of Saltimbanque Corporation security. Sloane, he said. Youre under arrest.

Sloane jerked back. Gen acted as if she had never seen such an apparition in all her life. Who are you, sir? she asked August. She let a quaver come to her voice.

Never you mind, madame, said August. He approached the bed as if to soothe her, and she clutched her disarrayed clothes to her breast. Sloane cowered beneath the counterpane.

When August reached the bedside, in a single swift motion he pulled a stunner from his pocket, held it to Genevieves head and discharged it. The stunner was powerless, but Genevieve collapsed among the bedclothes as if shed been knocked out. She listened.

Okay, Sloane. Time to go.

Genevieve felt Sloane stir beside her. Is she dead? He sounded terrified.

Unconscious. Shell be out for a half hour or so. Time enough for me to book you.

I didnt plan this. It just happened. She came on to me in the restaurant

I dont care if she tackled you around the ankles. This isnt an unburned universe. We plan to be here awhile.

What difference does it make?

We have to deal with these people. The Committee of Public Safetys idea of freedom wasnt to have us come in and sleep with their women. You know the rules.

An edge of calculation crept into Sloanes voice. Give me a break. Theyve seen plenty of changes. What would it cost to make this right?

August made him wait. Genevieve wished she could open her eyes. Her father was good. Cant do it, friend. My movements are logged more tightly than yours, even. If Im here preventing interference my bosses are going to want to know what happened to the interferer. To say nothing of keeping this girl quiet.

This tramp? Shes nobody. If she disappeared today it wouldnt make a bit of difference.

Gen hoped August would make him pay extra for that. Forget the moneyshe hoped hed rip Sloanes lungs out and leave him for dead. Instead August said, How much cash do you have on you?

About seven hundred francs

Not currency, idiot. Eurodollars. Genevieve had reported to August that Sloane typically carried access to more than a hundred thousand in electronic cash on him at all times. Hed sashayed into the 1790s Hyatt like he was going to buy the place, sporting the fashionable rotund physique of 2060s wealth, dropping hundred-dollar tips and expecting to find the Eiffel Tower.

I can slip you fifty thousand right here, Sloane said.

August snorted. Pull your pants up and lets get you booked.

Eighty.

When is your wife expecting you back at the hotel? Did you tell her you were running down to Notre Dame for a quart of milk?

A hundred. A hundred ten!

Another silence. At last August said, Lets have it, then.

A rustle of clothes, the tap of code on a wallet keypad.

All right. You do three things, Sloane. One, you wait here in this room while I dispose of the girl. You dont make a move until I come back. Two, when you get back to the hotel you go to your room and check out immediately, then head back uptime. Three, you keep your mouth shut, and you never try anything like this again.

August was so good when he was playing a cop. Just the right mix of arrogance and corruption.

Believe me, I will, said Sloane. You wont regret giving me a break.

I wont regret it because Im never going to see you again. Right?

Right, right.

Genevieve felt August lean over the bed and pick her up. He grunted. He was getting a little old to lug her around. He carried her out the door, kicked it closed. She opened her eyes and mimed a kiss at him. He scowled. At the head of the stairs he gave up and set her down, winded. Youre no slip of a girl anymore, he said.

They snuck down the back stairs, avoiding the concierge, and out of the Hotel des Balcons. The 1793 Paris lane reeked of piss, horse manure and fresh-baked bread from the patisserie on the corner. Outside the shop a couple of Swiss hussars in brilliant blue dress uniforms loitered talking to a girl in a mob-cap. A beggar wearing a tricolor on his filthy hat and a silkscreened T-shirt of Humphrey Bogart clutched after Genevieves skirts as they passed. Alms, citizens?

To the beggars astonishment, August gave him his frock coat and hat. Libert, galit, fraternit